Chapter 4 The Return

The letter lay on the scarred wood of her university dormitory desk, the royal crest of Klbas a stark, embossed warning. For Mia Ritchard, the formal declaration of her selection for the Crown Prince's Welcome Committee was not an honor; it was a summons. A trap. Her blue eyes, bright as Klbasian sapphires, scanned the words again, her heart hammering against her ribs. At twenty, she had meticulously built a new life, a world of scholarships and late-night study sessions, brick by painful brick, to wall off the past.

She had shed the shadow of her mother's role as a palace nanny, becoming a woman defined by her intellect, not her proximity to power. Now, that wall was about to be breached.

She was being called to face Prince Tarkan. The Tarkan whose desperate library kiss still burned in her memory, and whose unanswered note had become a four-year-old wound she couldn't close.

Her silence hadn't been a choice; it had been a necessity. The memory was seared into her mind: a sun-drenched spring day in the palace gardens, where she and Tarkan, sixteen and reckless, had lingered over a book of poetry beneath the purple blooms of a jacaranda tree. Her mother, Sofia, had seen them. Later, Sofia's voice, usually so calm, had quaked with a terror Mia had never heard before. "I saw the Queen's eyes on you today, Mia. It was a look that freezes blood. He is the sun, and you are a moth. You will only get burned. Swear to me you will stay away." Mia's silence had been that sworn promise, her only shield. But it had offered little protection from the tabloids' glossy pages, where Tarkan's life as the "Playboy Prince" unfolded in a series of glittering, painful snapshots. Each headline, each photo with a beautiful stranger on his arm, was a fresh sting that mocked her sacrifice. To refuse the committee now was unthinkable; her scholarship, her very future, hung in the balance.

A sharp knock broke her thoughts. "Mia, you in there?" Kaya Sharma, her best friend from the Faculty of Administration, peeked in, a dark braid swinging over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with life. "What's with the death grip on that letter? Did you get expelled?"

Mia passed it over, her voice tight. "Worse. I'm on the Prince's welcome committee."

Kaya's grin lit up the small room. "Worse? That's amazing! You get a front-row seat to Prince Tarkan-the prodigal son returns! The entire campus will be green with envy." She paused, her smile faltering as she took in Mia's pallor. "Okay, why do you look like you're facing a firing squad?"

Mia twisted her fingers in her lap. "I... I grew up in the palace. My mother was Princess Myar's nanny. I knew them as kids. Seeing him again... it's complicated."

Kaya flopped onto the edge of the bed, her curiosity fully piqued. "Knew him how? Like, traded-mud-pies-in-the-garden knew him? Or... something more?"

"Just friends," Mia said, the flush rising in her cheeks a traitor to her words. "A long time ago. The palace is a different world, Kaya. I don't belong there anymore."

Kaya squeezed her hand, her warmth a small comfort. "You're top of our class, Mia. You're brilliant. And with that hair and those eyes, you look more like a princess than half the nobles in this country. Own it. Don't let some childhood drama hold you back."

Mia forced a smile that felt brittle enough to shatter. "I'll try."

That evening, Sofia watched Mia pack a small, overnight bag, her face etched with the familiar lines of worry. "Mia, are you certain about this?" she asked, her voice soft but urgent. "The palace isn't our world. And the Prince-"

"I can't say no, Mama," Mia cut in, her blue eyes pleading. "Refusing is not an option. It could risk my scholarship." She held her mother's gaze. "I'll stay out of his way. I promise."

Sofia's gaze lingered, heavy with a fear born from years of quiet observation. "Be careful, my love. The Queen sees everything. Tarkan is twenty-two now. He is not the boy you climbed trees with."

Mia nodded, Sofia's words settling like a lead weight in her stomach.

The royal motorcade glided through the golden gates of Valdoria Palace, the warm Klbasian air thick with the scent of jasmine and power. In the grand receiving hall, Tarkan stood beneath a cascade of crystal chandelier light, a vision of Klbasian nobility. At twenty-two, he was taller, broader, his tailored suit accentuating a powerful frame honed by years abroad. His bronze skin was radiant, his dark hair swept back to highlight the sharp, handsome planes of his face. His deep brown eyes, once alight with easy mischief, now held a guarded, assessing intensity. He was a prince shaped by diplomacy but haunted by silence.

King Ozzan approached first, his frame appearing more frail than Tarkan remembered, his silver hair thinning. His embrace, however, was warm, his voice thick with pride. "Welcome home, my son. Your people have missed you."

Tarkan held his father gently, a lump forming in his throat. "I've missed you, Father. And Klbas."

Princess Myar was next, a whirlwind of defiant energy. At nineteen, she was a stunning blend of Klbasian beauty and modern fire, her bronze complexion glowing and her dark curls bouncing as she hugged him fiercely. "About time!" she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "This palace has been insufferably dull without you. Promise me you'll cause some chaos."

He laughed, a brief, genuine escape from the tension coiling in his gut. "For you, Myar, I'll certainly try."

Queen Faya stood last, an imperious figure in a shimmering silver gown, her dark eyes as cool and unyielding as polished stone. She placed her hands on his shoulders, a touch that was more of a positioning than an embrace. "You look well, Tarkan," she said, her voice smooth but firm. "Your time abroad has served its purpose. Now, your true duties begin." She leaned closer, her tone dropping to a pointed whisper. "The Ferrand family attends tonight's reception. Lady Lamar has blossomed into a formidable match beautiful, poised, and essential to our alliances. You will be attentive."

It was not a suggestion; it was a command. Tarkan's jaw tightened. The gilded chains of duty were already closing around him. "Of course, Mother," he said, his nod curt, his heart already somewhere else.

Later, in his private chambers, Tarkan adjusted his cufflinks before a gilded mirror, the familiar scent of cedar cologne doing little to soothe him. His reflection showed a prince, flawless and composed, but his mind was replaying a single image: a girl with sapphire eyes in a silent library.

"Ramzi," he said, his voice low. "Did you know Mia Ritchard was selected for the welcome committee?"

Ramzi, organizing schedules nearby, stepped on his pen. "I saw her name on the final list from the university, Your Highness. I... did not think it wise to bring it to your attention."

Tarkan turned from the mirror, his gaze piercing. "You should have. Seeing her name on that list... it was like the last four years vanished. And then to hear her call me 'Your Highness'... it was like a slap." He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration raw and exposed. "Those years abroad, Ramzi, the parties, the women, the headlines-I thought I could erase her. I failed."

Ramzi's tone was cautious, the anchor of pragmatism to Tarkan's emotional storm. "Your Highness, the Queen's expectations regarding Lady Lamar are clear. Approaching Miss Ritchard now risks-"

"I know what it risks," Tarkan snapped, then softened, the anger deflating into a familiar ache. "But I need to know why. Why did she never answered. I need to hear it from her."

Ramzi gave a slow, weary nod. "Then move carefully, sir. This palace is a maze of eyes."

The palace courtyard was a vision of Klbasian grandeur, its marble arches framed by crimson banners that fluttered in the jasmine-scented breeze. The soulful wail of a traditional Klbasian lute drifted through the air. Mia stood amongst the other student volunteers, her navy uniform stiff and foreign against her skin, a stark contrast to her own radiant beauty. Her blond hair was pinned in a severe knot, but loose strands had escaped to frame her porcelain face, catching the sunlight like spun gold. Her blue eyes were fixed on the stack of programs in her hands, her heart a frantic, trapped bird. He won't notice me, she told herself. I am just one face in a crowd.

She was wrong.

Tarkan moved down the line of dignitaries, his bronze skin gleaming, his smile polite but impossibly distant. He greeted ministers and ambassadors with an easy, resonant voice, but his thoughts, his entire being, were scanning the crowd for a single face. Then, his gaze found her.

His world narrowed to a single point. The dignitaries, the music, the fluttering banners-it all faded into a meaningless blur. She was breathtaking. More beautiful than his memory had allowed. The delicate features of the girl had sharpened into the stunning confidence of a woman. Her blond hair shimmered, and her sapphire eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and defiance, met his. Tarkan's breath caught. He broke from the receiving line, drawn toward her by a force stronger than four years of resentment, stronger even than duty.

He stopped before her, so close he could see the slight tremble of her lips, the storm raging in her eyes. "Mia," he said. It was a name he hadn't spoken aloud in four years, and it felt like both a prayer and a wound.

She lifted her chin, her composure a shield of ice. "Your Highness," she replied, the formal title a perfectly aimed dart.

Pain, sharp and swift, flashed in his eyes before he masked it. "Four years," he said, his voice low and raw with the weight of it all. "Not one letter, not a single word. Why, Mia? What did I do?"

Her heart lurched. Sofia's warning echoed in her ears: You'll only get burned. She clung to her resolve, the images from the tabloids-Tarkan smiling, always with a different beautiful woman-stinging anew. "You seemed to manage quite well without my words," she said, her tone cold enough to cut glass. "Paris, Rome... you led a very full life, Your Highness."

His jaw tightened, her words finding their mark. He wanted to argue, to shake her, to unravel the web of silence and misunderstanding between them. But duty, in the form of his aide, pulled him back.

"Your Highness, we must keep moving," Ramzi's urgent voice said at his elbow.

Tarkan held Mia's gaze for one moment longer. "This isn't over," he murmured. It was less a threat than a sacred vow. He turned, leaving her clutching the programs, her knuckles white, the memory of his kiss in the library suddenly burning brighter and hotter than the Klbasian sun.

That evening, in the palace's private study, Tarkan faced his sister. Myar lounged on a velvet settee, her bronze skin catching the lamplight, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. A tray of honeyed figs-a treat from their childhood-sat between them.

"You nearly derailed the entire welcome ceremony today," she said, popping a fig into her mouth. "Ramzi was practically sweating through his suit trying to keep you on script. What on earth happened?"

Tarkan paced the room, his jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, revealing bronze skin taut with tension. "I saw Mia, Myar. When I saw her, it was like... everything else just vanished."

Myar's teasing grin faded, her expression softening into concern. "Mia Ritchard? After all this time?" She leaned forward, her dark curls bouncing. "Tarkan, you haven't mentioned her name once since you left. I honestly thought you'd forgotten her."

He stopped pacing, his gaze distant. "I tried," he confessed, his voice cracking with a vulnerability only she was allowed to see. "Every party, every meaningless flirtation, every woman in every tabloid-it was all just noise. It was all to drown her out. But today, she was standing right there, more beautiful than ever, and she looked at me as if I were a complete stranger." He met his sister's eyes, the raw hurt exposed. "Why didn't she write, Myar? Was it Mother? Did our friendship, did... did I mean nothing to her?"

Myar rose from the settee and crossed to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Maybe she was just scared, Tarkan. Mother isn't exactly welcoming to outsiders, and you know how fiercely protective Sofia is."

His fists clenched at his sides. "I could have protected her." He looked at Myar, his resolve hardening into fierce determination. "I need to talk to her. Properly. I need answers."

A spark of the old mischief returned to Myar's eyes. "Then let's make it happen," she declared. "Tomorrow night is the grand welcome party-dinner, dancing, the whole boring courtly spectacle. I'll invite Mia as my personal guest. I'll say it's for old times' sake, a nod to our childhood trio. You can talk to her there, away from all the official ceremony nonsense."

A genuine smile, the first since his return, broke through Tarkan's tension. His heart lifted with a surge of hope. "You're brilliant, Myar. That's perfect." He pulled her into a quick, grateful hug. "If I can just get a chance to speak with her, to really speak... it might change everything."

Myar grinned, squeezing him back. "Just try not to give Ramzi a heart attacks this time. And watch out for Mother, I saw her with Lady Lamar earlier. She's already moving her pieces on the chessboard."

Tarkan nodded, his mind already racing. For the first time since setting foot back in Klbas, he felt a flicker of possibility. A chance to reclaim the past.